Title: "The Psychology of Folding"
Author: Wish Wielder
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing / Character Focus: (Tenth) Doctor, Rose Tyler
Challenge: N/A
Theme / Prompt: N/A
Word Count: 1,484
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: The Doctor learns a little bit more about Rose and her clothing quirks.
Notes: S2; part of the Psychology series. Slight references to "The Psychology of Clothes", but you don't really have to read that to get this one.
Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" and all respective properties are © the BBC. Megan D. (Wish Wielder) does not, has never, nor will ever own "Doctor Who".
"The Psychology of Folding"
It had all started – quite innocently, if he might add – in his last life. More specifically, in his last life with his latest companion, one Rose Tyler. Narrowing it down further, it had started in his last life, shortly after his latest companion, one Rose Tyler, had swung by home to get some spare clothes (well, that had been the original intention – they hadn't been counting on the Slitheen throwing a party at 10 Downing). To pinpoint the exact moment, it was in his last life, shortly after one Rose Tyler (his latest companion) had swung by home to pick up some…when she had asked him to help unpack said clothes. Well, more like when he failed to say no to her asking him to help unpack said clothes. (But really, he had never been able to say no to her. He was firmly convinced she had brainwashing powers in her smile, neverminding the impossibility of that. Or it could just be that she was Rose.)
Anyway, that's how it started. She had asked him to help unpack her clothes, and he had (begrudgingly, he liked to believe) said yes. It continued past that to every time she did her wash, when she would swan into the console room with a basket full of warm, dry clothes balanced perfectly on her hip. She'd take his hand, flashing him that brainwashing smile and asking him if he'd help her put the clothes away. And, being the generous (whipped) Time Lord he was, he would follow her to her room and stand by the wardrobe as she sat on the bed and proceeded to fold her clothes.
That was where it got tricky.
She would sit there, cross-legged with her laundry basket next to her, and would create small piles of folded clothes in front of her on the bed. He would retrieve an article from that pile (except her knickers, ever since the second time he'd teased her with the black lacy pair that started it all) and proceed to put it away somewhere. He knew her organization system by heart (he was brilliant, after all), and it didn't take long for him to sort the clothes away. His problem was, and always had been, that…well, she took longer to fold the clothes than he took to put them away.
Like he had said: tricky.
She was very…meticulous about it. Everything had to be folded a certain way, and…well, it was all well and good, really. He didn't have that much of a problem with it – until he had offered to fold something. It had been the
briefest of looks, but he was very perceptive when it came to Rose Tyler. It had been a cross between looking like she wanted to flee or maybe even strangle him – the look you get when you see something really nasty congealed in the back of your icebox and you, for the life (lives) of you, cannot remember just what in Rassilon's name it is. And it, much to his dislike, was aimed at him.
"S'all right," she had said, rather quickly if memory served correct. "I don't mind doing it."
He had been content to let it drop, if for no other reason than to not be on the receiving end of that look again.
But…well, now it was just getting ridiculous. Even now when she took her wash home for Jackie (something he still didn't under…well, ok, maybe he did understand – but it was absolutely not his fault the washer tried to eat her; his jiggery-pokery had nothing to do with it!), who folded everything before putting it back in her bag, she would still dump it all unceremoniously by her on the bed, refold every last article, and hand it off to him to put away. And, quite frankly, it was driving him mad.
They could be using this time to oust a dictator, or run for their lives, or cuddle up on their favorite sofa and sn-
They could be doing other things with the time she wasted refolding!
"Ro-ooose," he whined, drawing out the 'o' like an annoying child. She looked up at him as she placed a newly-refolded jumper in its designated pile, quirking a brow. He sighed. "Do you really have to redo every single one?"
"Yes," she answered quickly, and he groaned.
"Honestly, Rose – we could be…be…on a beach! Right now, on a beach. Splashing in the waves, playing in the sand, soaking up the sun – sounds lovely, yes? We could be doing that, right now, with all the time you're wasting refolding your clothes," he said. "Or back in colonial America, Ding-Dong-Ditching Thomas Jefferson while he works on the Declaration of Indepen-"
"You're serious?" she asked, her eyebrows soaring even higher. "They didn't even have doorbells in 1776."
"Well, yes, but you could still knock on doors," he said. He ignored the fact that yes, they did have doorbells in 1776 – just not the kind she was used to. He grinned at her. "It's a blast, really – did it to that lot writing the Magna Carta, and Martin Luther."
"King, Jr.?" Rose asked, and he waved a hand.
"No, no, no – the original, when he was doing the 95 Theses. He was on ninety-four for hours 'cause of me," he said, his grin growing, and she fell forward laughing. See? Much better! He could be making her laugh like this more if she wasn't so busy refolding!
"Oh, God – you're horrible!" she said once she had calmed down. He nodded to the still-folded clothes left in the bag.
"So? What about it? Just leave 'em as-is and come help me Ding-Dong-Ditch Mary Shelley? Oh! Agatha Christie?" he asked, and she shook her head.
"No," she said. "I have to get this done first – then I'm up for the beach, but not so much Ding Dong Ditch."
"Ro-ooose!" he whined again, and she looked back to him, a pair of knickers in her hands. "Honestly, Jackie does it for you – why do you have to fold them again?"
"Because…" she started, then paused. He gave a triumphant shout and pointed at her.
"Ha – you don't have an answer! You know it's just as pointless as I do!" he said, and she shot him a look.
"It doesn't matter who folds 'em, Doctor – it's how. She folds them wrong," she said. Her gaze then narrowed. "And so d'you."
"…what?"
"You fold 'em wrong," she said. She tossed him the knickers. "There, fold that."
He looked down at the pair (black and lacy – the ones he had first…) and bit back the comment as he studied them. He shrugged and shook them, hooking his fingers in the waistband to stretch them out. Rose watched him intently as he folded them in half and proceeded to roll them up. With a grin, he held the fabric up for her to see.
"See? Easy-peasy!" he said, and she rolled her eyes as she held out an expectant hand. With a frown he handed them back, and with one word – "Watch." – she proceeded to fold them in half, first one way then the other. When she was done a nice little square bunch of fabric rested in her palm.
"That's how you fold 'em," she said. He gaped at her.
"But…but…Rose!" he cried, throwing his arms up in aggravation. She rolled her eyes and went to fold another shirt. "Honestly, you just need them hanging somewhere to keep the wrinkles out – otherwise it doesn't matter! They're all just unfolded in the end anyway once you wear them!"
"It does matter," she said, and he groaned.
"No, it doesn't!" he said, and she gave him a look. The one that said 'Watch it, mister – thin ice here.' The one that let him know exactly how much he was in for it if he didn't just back off. He sighed and picked up the shirt she handed him, placing it in the drawer with the others.
"Fine," he said. "We can go to the beach later, after you've finished doing the unnecessary second folding of your clothes."
Her gaze sharpened, and he chose to (wisely, or maybe that needed an 'un-') ignore it.
"Bright side?" he asked, looking back at her as he came to stand by the foot of her bed. She looked up at him as she folded a pair of jeans, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. "You're letting me touch your knickers again."
She paused and looked at him, her face turning a brilliant shade of scarlet. She blinked at him before shaking her head.
"One of these days I'm so gonna kill you," she said. Her face turned a darker shade of red as he picked up the black lacey pair. "If you don't kill me first."
He wondered, briefly, if that was meant to be an insult.